Chapter Text
The Turner boy was dead. Of that they were certain. When a young sailor came across the mangled body—trampled under the mob’s feet—the reality of his situation was undeniable. The once elegantly carved features and broad, strong body were so horribly disfigured that he scarcely resembled the apprentice who once loved Port Royal and her treasures. The boy was not their only casualty, to be sure. Fatalities were quite truthfully the only thing certain in a Royal Navy man's profession.
"Floating at the mercy of God’s watery judgement," Mr. Gibbs had once labelled their positions, before his unfortunate disappearance.
A cabin boy and two officers critically wounded, tens more missing or dead. Bodies floated in the swells below their ship, mere smudges in the water, which glistened and reflected the dove colored moon. Coins carefully stitched onto ruby jackets and bloodied swords stuck in swollen hands reflected in the moonlight. It created a bizarre spectacle: like the ship was anchored among the stars, surrounded by sky above and below.
Given their position, his men had made it out of the ambush in a better state than he might have guessed. It was a grim victory, though. Despite all this, nothing truly disturbed the Commodore as much as the crooked body at his feet.
“Trampled to death?” the young man beside him---perhaps the same age as Turner---offered in a quivering tone.
“No,” James moved the head with his boot, revealing a dripping gash at the body’s neck, “slit throat. It must have been some sort of… sacrifice.”
Both men glanced at the shining gold chest just steps away from the body. Its crude carvings appeared even uglier in the sharp shadows of the cave. When they peered in, countless ancient coins winked back at him, unmistakably stained with blood. A shiver ran through him.
"Should we bring the body back, sir?"
He sighed, wiping at his brow, with only one thought forming fully: “What shall I tell Elizabeth?”
“Pardon, sir?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all… I’m afraid burial at sea would be best. There’s no one at Port Royal or anywhere else to miss him, save a blacksmith who must now seek another apprentice.”
Secretly, he couldn’t bring himself to show Elizabeth this mangled, dusty corpse. A small part of him cried out in pity for Turner; the unrequited lover who became caught in such a mess. Who turned to piracy in his desperation. It was nothing short of a Shakespearean plot. Still, another horrid part of him felt relieved from the pressure of this boyish, carefree competition. Surely, had he lived, he would have had no difficulty in acquiring a Mrs. Turner---simultaneously leaving James Norrington bereft of a bride. He sheepishly curtailed the thought, remembering that young woman waiting on the Dauntless. The question struck him once more. How would he tell her?
“Commodore!” a shout from Gillette brought him back to their immediate situation, though he couldn't shake Elizabeth's devastated face every time he closed his eyes.
The days during the journey back were silent between them. The few times he encountered Elizabeth, the emptiness in her eyes left any words of greeting caught in his throat.
The mix of amusement and pity in his subordinates' eyes at his complete surrender each time only rubbed salt into the wound. He couldn’t blame them for it, this being their first glimpse at him as a simple man and not a superior. Throughout his military life, he had made it a point to avoid softness around anyone. It was a weakness which, once divulged, could never go back into Pandora's box. Even as a new recruit, though he was a scrawny, anxious boy, he had revered his father's advice and kept his head high. That determination had carried him far.
Tonight, the Caribbean weather was in their favor. A fair north wind gently guided the Dauntless, her sails gleaming copper in the setting sun. James strolled the deck in long strides, occasionally letting his eyes fall back to the fiery sky. The Swanns should have been far into their evening meal, yet when he glanced through the rippled windows of their fine quarters, he could only spot the governor nervously poking at his ham. With a tinge of hesitation, he quickened his pace, setting his mind from the nightly rounds to a sweeter goal. When he found the upper decks clear of any unusual occupant, he turned to check below. A dreadful supposition told him where his suspect might be. In the darkness, mundane conversations filled the silence of the cramped quarters. The lamps threw shadows of hats or hand gestures on the walls as he passed. A certain hushed conversation caught his ears as he neared the cell where one Jack Sparrow lay caged.
A tense female voice gave the party away as it hissed,"...would be with Will!"
"A felicitous declaration on the heels of your engagement, Mrs. Commodore,"
"That is cold, Jack. Even for a pirate."
"You're almost as much pirate as me, unless you mean to defend the innocence of your excellently timed engagement-"
"Don't."
When Jack spoke again, it was with a sincerity James had never heard before, "He's gone, love. Best learn to move on."
"It's all my fault," Elizabeth spat.
James' cheeks burned, both in the shame of his unwelcome listening, and for the contents of the speech he heard. It was all foolish. A foolish balancing act for Elizabeth to have attempted. Even more foolish for him to have forgotten the passion of youth. She had tried to trick the system, and failed. For a brief moment, guilt closed his throat as Turner's corpse returned to his mind's eye. But then, why should he bear that shame? The boy had also been playing at a foolish game. It was no surprise that he lost. There was no way to change that, and why should he sympathize with a boy who had defied and disrespected him at every chance? He stood frozen in indecision, listening to his heartbeat over the sounds of Jack Sparrow's strange attempts at comforting words. Then, as if possessed, he strode in innocently upon the scene.
It was as though he had caught two children discussing the coup of a schoolmaster. Elizabeth instinctively jumped to her feet, yet ducked to hide her red eyes. Sparrow retained his usual cool demeanor.
James strained to sound as jovial as possible, "Ah, there you are, Elizabeth."
Her glossy gaze met his, "Commodore. I was just..."
"I had hoped you might take a promenade about the deck with me? Away from... unsavory characters?" He attempted to pull in the reigns of the situation. It would be best not to test her in front of Sparrow.
After a moment's hesitation, "Of course."
She hurried forward with a glance to Sparrow before tucking a shaking hand into the crook of her fiancé’s arm. He wondered whether that quiver could be attributed to sorrow or wrath. Together, they strode up and out into fresh night air. When they emerged, the last rays of orange still lingered on the edge of the horizon. Elizabeth started towards the open door—through which they could just make out her father’s glancing about the cabin—but he caught her bandaged hand and placed it gently on the railing.
“Look at my men, Miss Swann. Each day they set to their menial jobs, and through them I can make this ship sail. It is up to me to know each man and his task, to make the decisions that our lives float upon. It is not an easy burden to bear, but I have been long trained for it. I suspect you have been trained likewise for a similar duty. We are two souls on the same path.” He paused, willing himself to sound steady as he continued into choppier waters, “Yet I think it is a path you would prefer to escape from.”
She bristled, and when she spoke, it sounded hollow and insincere, “I’m not sure I understand your meaning.”
"Would it suit you to... reconsider the answer you gave?"
There was a long silence. Long enough for him to begin an exit strategy. He was decorated in planning such maneuvers. With women—with romance—he might as well have been drowning at sea.
“My word is not one to be quickly questioned,” she finally said, her tone undefinable as she studied his cravat blankly.
He ducked his head so that she made eye contact with him, determined to speak to the creature behind the mask, “I am no simpleton, nor am I a blind man. I would not have you wish I were another man for the rest of your life.”
She sharply turned to stare out at the sea, “I shall not tolerate such suggestions put to me, sir.”
"No, please! I simply... I do not wish to trap you into a life of heartache. I couldn't bear to look you in the eyes every day knowing you would rather be free. If it is your wish, I release you from your duty."
"Oh..." For a split second, he could see a flash of yearning veil her sharp features. Her eyes strayed past his shoulder, as if peering straight to that dismal island from whence they fled. She took a breath, but seemed to decide against her response. There must have been a lifetime of dreams that escaped those parted lips, for when she did speak, she had the air of a general setting up the white flag of surrender.
"I do not think I will ever truly be free." She glanced back at him, "So, I have resolved to spend my life in someone's company."
He hoped she could not hear his drumming heart. To him, it seemed that Elizabeth Swann was balancing upon a scant wall between rising to her duties or abandoning her station completely. In fear of spooking her the other way, he only answered with a stiff nod.
Then, sealing their peace treaty, the two shook hands firmly, before silently continuing to stroll. The moment was broken by the squawk of Governor Swann for his daughter, and she retreated with a mutter of apology.
James Norrington’s sea legs suited him, as he seemed to have left all of his awkward restlessness back on the docks. His soul must have been sleeping all the time they had been together on land, for the moment he stepped aboard a ship, he sprang to life. Elizabeth watched him all that first day, unnerved at the sight of this new James she hadn’t known.
Whenever he thought no one was looking, he would steal to the banister and gaze out, lips bent into a crooked smile. She had never seen such a boyish quality to his eyes, which tore across the sea hungrily as his fingers drummed against the railing. Then, of course, one of his sailors would scurry by and he would snap into his serious facade, brows knitting in an icy scrutiny. More than once, she saw a bit of Will in him. It terrified her. Each time, the familiar ache struck her chest, and she was forced back to the darkness of her quarters.
Once or twice, her fiancé attempted to catch her alone again, and each time she fled, frightened of seeing the ghost afresh. By the time their ship was docking in the familiar harbor of Port Royal--a sight she had long given up hope of seeing once more--it was all she could do not to throw herself over the rail to escape their delicate run-ins.
Without a second glance, Port Royal swallowed her back into its familiar life. She often awoke in a cold sweat, sure her harrowing journey was nothing but a nightmare. On those nights, she rushed to the window sill and stared down at the dark shell of the blacksmith forge. The absence of life was the only thing to reassure her that the nightmare was real, that it existed in the waking world first. The days passed slowly and dully like they used to, only this time she couldn't quite fit back into her subdued position. Her world had expanded past the horizon line, and there was no way to shrink it down once more.
One morning, a curious note was delivered to her father at the breakfast table. As he read, a slow smile spread across his face, and he glanced more than once at his daughter. She began to dread the letter’s contents.
"Father, what is it?"
He cleared his throat, "have you wondered about your fiance's whereabouts lately, dearest?"
"I haven't been uncurious," she stuttered, squinting at the fish on her plate.
"Then you'll be delighted to hear that you have been called on?"
Her head snapped up, "What? When?"
"I'll inform him at once that you're interested!"
"But when is it?"
"I had hoped that he would hold firm his intentions upon our return."
"Father, the date?"
"Hmm?" he finally noticed her again, "Oh, this afternoon. You're to take a stroll with him."
"This afternoon?" She blanched.
Her father, of course, took no notice of her panic, "Yes, how timely! Now, you must get ready! We wouldn't want to be late."
The term 'stroll' quickly became an inadequate word to describe the afternoon's endeavor. They had set off from the fort's entrance and from there made their way up the island's hilly terrain. As feverishly as Elizabeth hiked, James' long legs outpaced hers, often forcing him to stop and glance back until she caught up. Though her patience grew quickly threadbare, she dared not ask him to shorten his strides. If he truly thought himself a man of honor, he would have quickly realized the way to a lady's heart was to match her stride.
The conversation was idle and vacuous, only serving to lengthen the hours. When they reached an overlook, Elizabeth paused to gaze down on the bustling town. A busy construction in the fort caught her eye. The Commodore must have noticed, as he had snuck up behind her.
"They're restoring the jail. And building a new gallows. The previous one was destroyed by cannon fire."
It was kind of him to neglect the obvious addition of the events that followed that night. It seemed neither wanted to dwell on the whole ordeal. "Why so soon?"
He hesitated.
A terrible understanding sank into her stomach. Elizabeth glanced up at him, "what will happen to Jack?"
The Commodore winced as though he had expected such a question, "Miss Swann, my hands are tied. I must abide by the law."
"No-"
"He is a criminal-"
She burst forth, streaming up the trail with her fiancé in pursuit, "It's not right!"
He jogged behind her, "And a pirate-"
"And a good man."
"If," his voice hardened, "you could find one plausible way to keep Sparrow out of the noose, I would listen." Then he sighed, suddenly seeming incredibly weary, "let us not be on opposing teams. On this or any other matter."
She paused, with a turn to peer straight into his guarded eyes. They could only stare at each other for a few heated moments before pressing on along the path.
"Would that I were not so easily excitable..." Elizabeth remarked, kicking a pebble with the toe of her shoe.
"Would that you were not so unforgiving of either of us," he responded cautiously.
She bristled, "Do you think of me as a feral cat?"
"Occasionally. When you traipse around in military uniform or light signal fires on islands." He said it with such a self-satisfied smile that the regrettable fire inside Elizabeth couldn't help but roar up once more. What a devil was he, to snatch her away from her solitude when it pleased him. Or to mock her desperate attempts at survival just weeks ago. Or to look at her so expectantly, even now. Will had been sure of her and thought these qualities wondrous.
She muttered as drily as possible, "Sir, I must take leave of you now. I pray you won't take offense."
"Wait, Elizabeth-" he darted after her, now somewhat failing to match her pace, "I didn't mean to insult- Please!"
With each of his words, Elizabeth's steps grew quicker, until she was half running back to town. Let James Norrington abuse her all he wished. The man was wholly correct on one front: under all her petticoats and ornaments, she was feral and unbroken. No man could take up such bearing with her without expecting consequences. Her dashing fiancé would soon have to learn that.